Monday, 18 February 2019

Window World...



She sits by the window

Plucking hairs from her chin

Scratching her armpits

Slowly sipping pink gin

Gawping at the rat race

Scuttling on by

As her liver-spotted hand

Swats the odd malingering fly

And she chuckles to herself

In her dusty old house

With the creaking doors

And the three-legged mouse

And she counts her blessings

For all that she's got

Even though some might say

She hasn't got a lot

But she knows different

And she reaches for a fag

Whilst shifting her numb buttocks

Before taking a deep drag

Then straightening the creases

In her tattered old frock

She sways to and fro

To the rhythm of the clock

The clock on the shelf

That no longer tells the time

'Cos the clock's hands are broken

And that suits her just fine

Mithering measured moments

Were never her thing

She'd rather watch the world

Than watch life's pendulum swing

But not the world through TV

Or the half-truths of the press

She prefers to watch her window world

And the march of the obsessed

Who stumble by her tiny terraced

Going about their day

Eyes glued to their iPhones

Their pallor shades of grey

And if she's really lucky

As she chews her morning toast

She'll see a Smartphone idiot

Walk face first into a lamppost

And every time that happens

She splutters crumbs and tea

As laughter overtakes her

Bringing with it a dribble of wee

And all the dust mites scatter

At the strength of her guffaw

Whilst she shuffles off her window seat

To raid her knicker drawer

The drawer shared by her one-eyed cat

And her extra set of teeth


The drawer where Herbert's ashes rest

Tucked safely underneath

The silk chemise he used to love

The blue matching her eyes

Before age gave her cataracts

And before he told her lies

Lies that broke her trusting heart

Teaching her a lesson

Believe in no one but yourself

Solitude can be a blessing

And from that time so long ago

She's loved to live the life

That lets her be just who she is

And not defined by 'wife'

Then as she potters back to look

Her window world in the eye

She briefly thinks of Herbert

And such thoughts widen her smile

As she glances to her back garden

And the scorched patch, hidden well

Where Herbert spent his one last night

Before journeying on to hell



Poem only © Copyright Lynn Gerrard

2 comments:

  1. Reading this poem, I was reading about myself. You describe me very well, until the end that is. This may still come to pass, but it is supposed to be my secret!

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    1. Haha! Well, as it happens...this poem came about as I found myself pluckiing a whisker from my chin as I stared blankly out of my living room window one day...but Shh...don't tell

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